Dead Tired
by Bluecrow213
Summary: Being in the wrong place at the wrong time has devastating consequences for Ziva. Knowing how little time she may have left forces her and Gibbs to acknowledge feelings they have both kept buried for far too long. Rated M for violence and disturbing medical details (SQUICK - implied animal experimentation). Some of the science is 'creative' ;-) NOT a death fic!
1. Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Ziva was about to drive around the block again, when she spotted an elderly man walk out of the bank and head towards a car parked just outside. She pulled up and waited just back from the spot, watching as the man checked his pockets and finally found his car keys. As he opened his car door, he glanced over at her, and gave her a nod and a smile, then got in. A few moments later he drove away, leaving Ziva to edge into the parking spot. As she got out of her car, she congratulated herself on her luck. It was always difficult to find parking close to the bank during the day, which was why she rarely went into the bank itself, preferring to use debit machines and online banking.

But this morning she had tried to withdraw some money, only to have the ATM refuse to recognize her debit card. Worn and scratched as it was, it really wasn't surprising. She had known for a while that the card needed replacing, but she'd put it off until now, when she was forced to go into the bank to get a new card.

As she pulled open the door of the bank, her attention was caught by the middle-aged man standing a few yards away at the edge of the sidewalk. He looked agitated, running his hand through his thinning hair, and mumbling to himself. But he wasn't looking at anyone in particular, wasn't bothering anyone, so she shrugged it off and continued into the bank. There was quite a lineup, and Ziva checked her watch. While it was a slow day at work, she didn't want to be late getting back from lunch. You never knew when a case would materialize, and it didn't do to be on lunch when that happened.

After about ten minutes standing in line, Ziva pulled out her phone. If she was going to be late back, she should at least let one of her colleagues know where she was. She was about punch in McGee's number, when the door of the bank was wrenched open, and the agitated man she'd noticed earlier walked in. Though he was flushed, and sweat shone on his face, he now seemed otherwise rational... until he pulled a gun from an inside pocket and pointed it at the security guard.

"Hand over the gun!" The command was loud enough for everyone in the room to hear; only a faint tremor shook the man's voice. The guard, a heavy-set, greying man, obviously decided that his best bet was to cooperate. If the intruder was intent on robbery, he was going to let him take what he wanted without anyone getting hurt, and let the cops deal with catching the man later. Moving slowly, the guard unholstered his weapon and handed it over.

Taking a few steps towards the tellers' counter, the gunman said, "I want the manager!" The tellers glanced nervously at one another, but were saved from trying to decide who would respond when the manager, a man in his early forties, with a reassuring air of competency, emerged from his open office, having heard the demand.

"Can I help you?" His voice was calm, and to some his question might have sounded ridiculous, but Ziva realized that the manager was trying to keep the situation as low-key as possible. His all-in-a-day's-work demeanor was intended to reassure the customers and staff, while giving the gunman no reason to react suddenly. Ziva felt a slight measure of relief; if it was staff policy that no-one tried to be a hero, then they might all get out of this with nothing more than shredded nerves. Everyone in the bank was standing motionless, and Ziva hoped it would stay like that.

"I want to see the CEO of this bank," the gunman said; again there was the faintest shake in his voice, but otherwise he seemed relatively composed.

The manager nodded. "I can call him and you can talk to him..."

"I want him here in person."

"Sir, that's not possible, the CEO isn't..."

"I said, in person!" Suddenly the man raised his gun and fired into the ceiling. Instinctively, everyone ducked, there were a few muffled screams from some of the customers, and one of the tellers. "In person! Now!" The agitation that Ziva had observed in the man when he was standing outside seemed to be creeping back into his manner.

The bank manager took a step towards him; his voice was placating as he began, "Sir, I'm very sorry, but the CEO won't..." The gunman's tentative composure deserted him; he pointed his gun at the manager and pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit him in the belly, and he doubled over with a choking cry. "Wrong answer," the shooter snarled. He turned his gaze to the tellers, and took a step towards them, but his attention was taken by the sudden wail of sirens on the street outside. Moments later a police car pulled up on the other side of the parked cars. Presumably, one of the tellers had hit a panic button, summoning local law enforcement. Though her eyes were fixed on the gunman, Ziva was aware of several sighs of relief from other customers. She knew, though, that this was when things could get really dangerous. If the gunman panicked now, more people could get hurt.

Ziva took a quick glance around. If she'd been more in the background, she might have risked going for her own gun, relying on her speed and accuracy to allow her to act before the gunman realized what was happening. But she was right in front of the man, any movement she made would be instantly obvious.

The gunman glanced over his shoulder; sweat was starting to run down his face, and his breathing was fast and shallow. For a split second, he seemed undecided on what he should do next. Then the cops got out of the car and began to approach cautiously, trying to peer through the reflections on the bank's glass front to see what was going on. A moment later, the gunman reached for the person nearest to him; with one arm around Ziva's neck, and the muzzle of his gun pressed to her temple, he dragged her to the window.

The cops froze, realizing that they had a hostage-taking on their hands, and quickly retreated behind their car. Ziva knew they'd be calling in backup now. It took all her self control not to try to disarm this lunatic; but the muzzle of the gun was hard against her skin, even she wasn't quick enough to prevent him from blasting her brains all over the window. She took a deep breath, hoping that the others in the bank wouldn't start to panic.

* * *

Gibbs walked into the squad room, frowning when he saw Ziva's desk was still empty. "Ziva not back yet?" It was a slow day, but that didn't mean his team were at liberty to take two-hour lunch breaks. McGee and DiNozzo exchanged knowing glances. They knew from personal experience that Ziva's extended midday absence would likely be balanced by the very late night she would have to put in on the extra paperwork that would soon be dumped on her desk.

"She said she was going to the bank," McGee offered. "Maybe it was busy."

The look Gibbs favored him with conveyed exactly what he thought of a long lineup as an excuse for being this late back from lunch. Shrugging, McGee turned his attention back to his computer; he'd tried, anyway. From the corner of his eye, McGee saw the senior agent put his paper coffee cup down on his desk and reach for his cellphone. Yup, he doubted Ziva would be leaving the office any time before midnight...

Then he saw Gibbs freeze in the act of sitting down, his expression suddenly changing from irritation to disbelief, his eyes fixed on the big tv screen positioned between McGee's and DiNozzo's work areas. It was customarily tuned to a local news station, and following Gibbs's gaze, McGee turned to look.

He saw the blurb - "Live: Hostage Taking At Local Bank" - and wondered why Gibbs would be so riveted by the report. Then he looked at the footage; it was a slightly shaky zoomed-in shot, of a man at the window of a bank, holding a female hostage by the throat. McGee blinked, understanding now why Gibbs was staring so intently. The hostage, looking grim and intense, with a gun pressed to her forehead was, without a doubt, Ziva David.


	2. Part of the Team

Detective Alec Hanley watched as the three men approached. He had a feeling they weren't press; they were moving with an intensity of purpose that made him think they were law enforcement. The man in the lead pulled out a badge, but his gaze was was focused on the bank across the street as he said, "Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. What's going on in there?"

Hanley frowned. "NCIS? What's your interest in this case? Is there a Naval connection?"

Gibbs finally faced him. "The woman with the gun to her head is a member of my team."

Hanley sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry to hear that. But it explains why she's so calm."

Gibbs nodded. "You got an ID on the hostage taker?"

Hanley nodded. "Dr Conrad Fiscella – a hotel receptionist saw the report on the news and recognised him as a guest at the hotel where she works. He's a research scientist at the CDC in Atlanta. We're waiting to hear back from his boss, see if we can figure out what he's doing holding up a bank in DC."

"You made contact with Fiscella?" Gibbs asked.

"Not yet – we're setting it up now."

Inside the bank, Fiscella had moved back from the window. Now that he'd let the cops know that he had a hostage, he didn't want them taking a shot at him through the window. Glancing around, he spotted the TV on a bracket above the tellers' counter. It was showing a news channel, and he realized that he was looking at coverage of the bank holdup. "You..." He nodded at one of the tellers; he now had the bank staff sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, along with the customers. The teller, young and blond, her face pale behind her designer glasses, stared at him nervously. "Where's the remote for the TV?"

The young woman looked confused and fearful, and her voice shook as she replied, "The remote? It's behind the counter."

"Get it." The woman didn't move, and Fiscella said, "Go and get the remote!" Looking terrified, the woman stood up, but seemed unable to move any further.

"It is all right. He just wants you to turn up the volume so he can hear what they are saying about him." It was Ziva who had spoken, and Fiscella looked down at her. Now that she'd drawn his attention, it dawned on him that despite being held in a choke hold, with a gun to her head, his primary hostage was probably the calmest person in the room. The young teller looked up at the TV screen, then back at Ziva, who nodded slightly. "Do it. There is no harm in that." Right now, she figured the most important thing was to keep this man calm until the police decided what to do.

Swallowing hard, the teller walked shakily over to the counter and picked up the remote control. It took her a moment of fumbling, but then she managed to turn up the volume.

"...no word so far on number of hostages, although bystanders report seeing a man holding a gun to the head of a woman..."

Fiscella moved back, maintaining his hold on Ziva, until he could comfortably see the TV screen. Looking up, Ziva saw the shot of the bank change, focusing on the police on the street, and she felt a sudden jolt of relief; standing with the cops was a very familiar, silver-haired figure. As he had been on so many previous occasions, Gibbs was there for her.

Somehow she wasn't surprised that he was already at the scene. Sometimes Gibbs seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to his team, turning up on cue when Abby had lab results, or DiNozzo was talking about him – or when, as now, one of them was in trouble. Ziva knew he'd be there for any of them. She wasn't special in that respect – had it been DiNozzo or McGee, or Abby in this situation, held hostage in a bank, Gibbs would be on the spot, doing whatever he could to get them out safely. Gibbs didn't play favorites.

But just occasionally she'd suspected that he might regard her in a different light from the rest of the team. A look held just a little too intensely; his body just a bit closer than necessary when he leaned over to look at something on her computer monitor; one of his rare kisses on the cheek – she knew she wasn't the only one he did it to, and in fact it was more often Abby on the receiving end - but the times when he'd brushed Ziva's cheek in a moment of comfort or gratitude, she'd felt that he lingered just a little too long, and had inhaled as if savoring her perfume... except that Ziva never wore perfume at work.

Most of the time, Ziva laughed at herself for her suspicions, told herself sternly that there was no reason to believe that Gibbs felt for her the way she did for him.

During the first year she'd been part of his team, she'd not been consciously aware of having anything more than a professional regard for him. That he was an attractive man was undeniable, and not just physically. Ziva had quickly grown to appreciate his integrity, his intelligence, his sense of humor that was somehow all the sharper for being so understated. He was a truly good man, flawed but incorruptible. All those things she'd acknowledged, and considered herself lucky to be working with such a man.

It wasn't until he came out of his coma, that she was aware that she might have deeper feelings for him. Desperate to unlock the memories that held the key to the potential terrorist attack, she'd gone to his hospital room and finally broken through his amnesia, and had wound up sobbing in his arms. Relief that he was 'back' had been part of the cause of her tears, but it had also been the first time she'd truly wept for Ari – still her brother, in spite of everything he'd done – and those tears had done a lot to ease her guilt and anguish over killing him.

Afterwards, whatever Gibbs might have felt about it, Ziva knew that things would never be the same for her. It was as if she'd opened the door on feelings she'd kept locked away during that first year. Understanding his past had been part of it. Three failed marriages had not, as she'd first assumed, been evidence that he was lousy at relationships; they were the mark of a man who'd known true joy in his first marriage, and perhaps without even knowing it himself, had continued to try for that happiness again, had kept on trying despite his failures because finding the right life partner again would make all those wrong choices worth it.

Ziva hadn't tried to kid herself that she could be that one woman who would complete Gibbs again; she knew herself to be just as flawed as he was, probably more so. But for a long time she'd known that he was everything she wanted and needed in a man. She accepted that it was one-sided, that the way she imagined him when she was alone at night, and needed a moment of physical relief was just a private fantasy, not something to be acted upon. She'd seen him with other women; had had lovers of her own, because life had to go on, but had recognized every time that the men she'd been with had been lovers in the physical sense only.

Most of the time it was enough to be a trusted member of Gibbs's team, to know that he valued her as a person. But just occasionally the desire for him as a man and a lover became so acute as to cause almost physical pain; moments of acute stress or danger were her triggers, so it came as no surprise to Ziva that when she saw Gibbs in the news footage, just a few hundred yards away across the street, there to make sure she came out of this situation in one piece, the longing to be in his arms, to receive his comfort, and know that he returned the love she felt for him, hit her like a freight train, and she had to turn her eyes away from the television until she could blink away tears and clear her head.


	3. Misguided Heroics

Outside, the line to the bank had been set up, and Detective Hanley willingly handed the phone over to Gibbs. Hanley himself had little experience of hostage negotiations, and he wasn't the sort of man to let his ego get in the way of giving those hostages the best chance of getting out of there, and being reunited with their families.

The call was to the tellers' desk; Gibbs could have called Ziva's cell, but he didn't want to startle Fiscella. It was reasonable to assume that Fiscella would be expecting the cops to make contact, but if his primary hostage's phone suddenly rang he might over react and pull the trigger.

The sound of the phone ringing made everyone inside the bank jump a little. Fiscella's head whipped around to locate the source, and Ziva felt his grip on her neck tighten. Then he nodded at the teller he'd spoken to before. "Answer it!"

The woman's eyes found Ziva's and the assurance she saw there gave her the courage to walk over to the counter. "H..hello?"

"Let me talk to the hostage-taker." Gibbs kept his voice calm.

The teller gazed nervously at Fiscella, and held out the handset to him. "Hold it so I can talk." Fiscella licked his lips nervously, and his voice cracked slightly as he spoke into the phone. "That the cops?" he demanded.

"We're right outside. My name is Gibbs." Gibbs was careful not to give his title or who he worked for; until he knew what the man wanted, he didn't want to give any clue that he was more than just a police negotiator, or that the woman Fiscella held in a potentially lethal choke hold was a federal agent. "What can I do to get everyone out of there in one piece?" he asked.

Fiscella swallowed. "Let me talk to the CEO of the bank," he said; his voice was choppy, he was so anxious that he was having trouble breathing evenly.

"We can arrange that," Gibbs told him. "But we'll need time. Is anyone hurt in there?"

Fiscella's gaze moved to the bank manager; the front of his shirt was soaked in blood, and the man huddled against the wall, pale and sweating, while a noticeably-pregnant teller held a wadded-up sweater to the wound in his gut.

"I shot the manager... and I'll shoot more if you don't do what I tell you!"

"Is he conscious? Can you send him out?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Sign of good faith. And you don't want him dying – it'll just make things worse for you." Gibbs spoke as calmly as ever, trying to keeping any threat out of his tone, sounding as if he was just explaining the situation.

Close as she was, Ziva could hear both sides of the conversation, and she felt Fiscella shake as he tried to decide whether to let the manager go. She was debating with herself whether to add her own encouragement, when Fiscella suddenly said, "Okay. You..." He was speaking now to the teller beside the manager. "You can help him leave." He nodded nervously, and the woman helped the manager get to his feet. Though he was bleeding a lot, the man was still able to walk, but he kept an arm around the teller's shoulders, determined to get the pregnant woman out of the situation with him.

Into the phone, Fiscella said, "I've sent him out. Now I want to talk to the CEO."

"Thank you," Gibbs said quietly. "We're still working on getting him to the phone."

Listening in on the line, Hanley had started the ball rolling as soon as he heard the demand from Fiscella. Now he nodded at one of his colleagues and scribbled a note that he held up for Gibbs to read.

Gibbs nodded, then said into the phone, "Could take a while to get the CEO, he's on a plane right now. We're working on it."

Fiscella's face tightened when he heard that. The cops could use it as an excuse to delay, until one of their snipers got a good shot at him. He looked back up at the TV screen, in time to see one of the cameras focus on the negotiators, and heard the commentator say, "We still don't know why federal agents are on the scene, but there's speculation that one of the hostages in the bank may be a high profile individual, or even a federal agent..."

Ziva felt another violent shudder go through Fiscella. "Hang up the phone," he snapped at the teller. As she shakily replaced the handset, Fiscella turned again to look at his hostages. "Which one of you is the fed?" he demanded, his voice rising several tones higher in anxiety. No-one answered, and Fiscella briefly turned the gun towards them. Not willing to take the risk that Fiscella might start shooting randomly at the civilians, Ziva spoke up.

"It is me. I work for NCIS."

The gun was back against her temple once more, and Fiscella said, "Never heard of them."

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service," Ziva explained. "My badge is in my inside pocket..."

Fiscella gestured with his head, and the blond teller approached; she searched Ziva's jacket with trembling hands and retrieved the badge. Fiscella stared at it, then demanded, "Are you armed?" Ziva sighed inwardly; but it was unlikely she'd have had an opportunity to go for her weapon safely.

"My gun is in a holster at my side," she said clearly.

"Take it and throw it into that corner," Fiscella told the teller. She complied, tossing the gun behind a grouping of potted ferns, where it would be difficult to retrieve in a hurry.

Over the phone, Gibbs heard the faint TV commentary, and swore as the call was cut off.

Standing a few yards away, and watching the bank through binoculars, McGee suddenly spoke up. "Boss, Fiscella just took Ziva's badge and gun – he knows who she is."

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs's voice was a frustrated snarl. "Get those vultures back from the scene," he said, gesturing towards the news crew. "They're gonna get someone killed."

"With pleasure, boss." Moments later, Tony was venting some of his feelings on the reporters as he hustled them to the far end of the block.

Inside the bank, Ziva could feel Fiscella reacting to the news that he'd just taken a federal agent hostage. He was muttering to himself, apparently trying to decide what to do next. Then he took a deep breath and said, "You'll have to do." Keeping the gun pressed firmly against Ziva's temple, he released her throat long enough to reach into his pocket for something.

"Boss..." McGee sounded uncertain as he tried to see what Fiscella was doing. His pause stretched until Gibbs snapped, "Talk to me, McGee!"

"Fiscella just took something out of his pocket, I can't see what it is. Don't think it's a gun..." He drew a sudden sharp breath. "It's a hypodermic syringe. He just pulled the cap off with his teeth and he's holding it to Ziva's throat."

Gibbs snatched up the phone, and called the bank again. It rang for a while, but finally it was answered, and, he heard Fiscella say, "I've got a federal agent in here. "

"Yeah."

"I'll exchange her for anyone on the grant approval committee of the Genetic Research and Development Foundation."

"This is about _funding?_" For a moment Gibbs's calm threatened to desert him.

"It's about more than funding! It's about life-saving research!" Fiscella's voice rose, fury and anguish making his voice crack, and the connection was abruptly cut once more.

Before Gibbs could react, Hanley handed him a sheet of paper he'd just received from one of his officers. "The CEO of the bank is the head of the grant approval committee. Whatever his grievance, that's why he targeted this particular bank. He must have been planning to threaten the CEO."

"DiNozzo, find out what Fiscella's connection is to that Foundation."

"Right." DiNozzo was turning away when a gunshot sounded inside the bank.

"Boss, Fiscella just went down, I think someone inside the bank shot him..." As McGee spoke, the door of the bank opened, and hostages began to stumble out.

"He's dead! He's dead!" one of them screamed, hysteria threatening to spill over.

The cops were starting to run to the bank, but Gibbs beat them to the door. Dodging past the customers and bank staff, he found Ziva kneeling beside Fiscella's body, one hand pressed to her neck. She turned her gaze on Gibbs. "One of the customers pulled a gun and shot him while he was distracted," she explained, her voice strangely expressionless. She looked down at the hypodermic syringe that had fallen from Fiscella's grasp. As Gibbs went to his knees beside her, Ziva slowly moved her hand away from her throat. She stared at the bright smear of red on the palm of her hand, while more blood welled from the small wound where the needle had pierced her skin.


	4. Just A Precaution

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I got well and truly Gibbs-slapped by life this week (actually, I feel like I was just interrogated by Ziva!) so the fic had to take a back seat for a while.**

* * *

From where she sat, facing the open door of the examination room, as she waited for the attending physician, Dr Janzen, to return, Ziva could see hospital staff moving around, and hear the noises one normally associated with a busy hospital – electronic sounds from monitoring equipment, the voices of ER nurses at the nursing station, other patients talking in low murmurs and the occasional wail from a child. The room she was in was nothing special, an exam table, a chair, cupboards and a sink, some equipment that appeared to have been stored in the room and forgotten. Ziva was not a fan of hospitals - she would tolerate them if she had to, but normally by this point she would be seriously considering walking out and heading straight back to work.

She raised a hand and touched the dressing on her neck. This was the only thing keeping her here. If it had been an ordinary wound – simple bruising, even a gash from a knife or a graze from a bullet – she wouldn't have stuck around. Those were known risks, she could judge for herself the seriousness, and perform first aid on herself if necessary. But this was different. She had no clue what had been in that syringe, and so far as she could tell, neither did anyone else – except for Fiscella, and he wasn't going to be any help, thanks to the misguided heroics from one of the bank customers.

No doubt he'd thought he was doing her a favor by pulling out a concealed handgun and shooting Fiscella, had probably imagined being congratulated by everyone for ending the hostage taking. But with Fiscella dead, it was going to take a lot longer to figure out exactly what he'd injected into Ziva's neck. Add to that the fact that it had been Fiscella's reflex jerk when the bullet struck him that had caused him to plunge the needle into her in the first place, and the young man was likely facing a whole lot of trouble – even if he managed to escape legal consequences, he'd still be in for several minutes of pure terror if Gibbs ever got a hold of him!

Gibbs had left McGee and DiNozzo to deal with the scene in the bank, though he'd bagged the hypodermic himself, and the only reason he hadn't accompanied Ziva to the hospital was that he'd taken it straight to Abby, so she could get a fast start on figuring out exactly what was in the syringe.

He'd waited long enough, though, to walk Ziva out and put her into the care of the paramedics; and the feel of his arm around her, the simple fact of his reassuring presence, had done a lot to calm her. He'd waited until the wound in her neck was dressed, and made sure that she'd be taken straight to Bethesda – even though other hospitals were closer – before leaving her. His parting hug had given Ziva so much comfort that she'd been hard pressed not to cling to him. But the sooner he got that syringe to Abby, the faster she could start working on it. Still, the glimpse of him watching as the ambulance door was closed, and the brief moment when he'd held her gaze, had given Ziva enough strength to hold things together, and answer the questions of the paramedic, as they headed for the hospital.

Abby's initial response to receiving the syringe had been mixed. Word had reached her that Ziva had been involved in a hostage taking, but Gibbs had called her moments after going into the bank, telling her that he was bringing in an unknown substance for her to test.

The only good news so far was that the hypodermic syringe from the scene of the hostage taking had still been almost half-full, meaning that there would be enough of the mystery substance to run multiple tests. The bad news was that the staining on the inside of the syringe indicated that it had been full; Ziva had been injected with nearly 3CC of the stuff, and they had no indication what it had contained. The only person who could have told them was on his way to the morgue.

Now Gibbs followed Dr Janzen along the hospital corridor. He'd made the trip to the NCIS office faster than even he had estimated, and after dropping off the syringe he'd made it across town to Bethesda with even less regard for the speed limit. It had gone against all his instincts to let Ziva make the trip to the hospital alone, but with Tony and McGee handling the scene at the bank, he'd had no option.

As he approached the triage room, he realized that he was going to have a hard time keeping up his professional facade. He'd seen members of his team sick and injured before but somehow this was different. Partly because of the unknown nature of the danger, but mostly because this was Ziva. He had long ago given up trying to fool himself that he didn't have feelings for Ziva that would be considered highly inappropriate by most of their colleagues; he was her boss, and had he ever acted on his impulses, the assumption would have been that he was using his authority to manipulate the junior agent into submitting to unwanted attentions.

Gibbs smiled to himself; anyone who thought that Ziva would be intimidated by him just because he was her boss, really didn't know the woman. Besides, he suspected that the sort of attention he wanted to give Ziva might not necessarily be unwanted. Every so often, he'd catch her watching him, and it wasn't so much the watching, as the way she'd look away almost guiltily, the expression on her face and faint flush in her cheeks making him suspect she'd been thinking something that was definitely not work-related.

But he'd never acted on his belief that she felt the same way he did. He'd gone on with his private life, such as it was, carefully ignoring the nagging feeling that whoever he was with, wasn't the woman he really wanted. He'd seen Ziva take the occasional lover, and had tried – not always successfully – not to think about her with another man, because doing so triggered violent impulses that he preferred not to acknowledge.

Sometimes he wondered what was holding him back. It wasn't just the professional aspect - most of the time, Gibbs didn't let convention affect his actions. And it wasn't the age difference, though he knew a lot of people would have a problem with seeing Ziva with a man so much older than she was. To Gibbs, age was simply a number.

But when he was truly honest with himself, he knew that his real reason for holding back was that he thought Ziva deserved to be with someone less emotionally damaged by life. Gibbs had long ago accepted that he would never completely heal from the pain of losing Shannon and Kelly. There would always be part of his heart that would belong to them, and the idea of giving Ziva anything less than all of his heart just seemed _wrong_. She deserved better than that. She deserved a man who hadn't spent so long building walls to keep others out that now he wasn't sure if he could break down those walls himself. In the end, it was easier, safer, to convince himself that he was merely seeing what he wanted to see, that he was just projecting his own feelings onto her.

But telling himself that she deserved someone better, that she didn't feel the same way he did, didn't stop him from sometimes imagining how things could have been – thoughts of waking on lazy mornings, to a cascade of hair the color of rich dark chocolate over the pillow next to him; and in moments when he finally achieved a little peace, like the time he'd watched a sunrise over a favorite fishing spot, he'd found himself wishing he could share that moment with Ziva. He'd accepted such thoughts for what they were – comforting but unrealistic. But as he approached the room, where she waited, where she was dealing with the fear of what might result from the mystery injection, he felt himself perilously close to speaking of the feelings he'd kept hidden with such unyielding resolve.

Ziva heard the two sets of approaching footsteps along the hallway; recognizing one of those patterns of footfalls, she was on her feet almost without realizing it. Just seeing Gibbs walk in triggered a sense of relief so strong it startled her.

Gibbs caught the unguarded expression on Ziva's face and his determination not to tell her how he felt about her wavered. He caught himself just in time, before he could act on the impulse to pull her into his arms, to hold her and murmur words of comfort. She was under a lot of stress, he told himself, that look was just because she was hoping that he had information that would relieve her fears. He settled for resting a hand on her shoulder, as he said, "We're working to figure out what was in that syringe."

Ziva nodded, swallowing. She rubbed her hands together as she asked, "Do you know why he lifted up the bank?"

Gibbs almost smiled; Ziva's grasp of idioms had improved immeasurably over the years, but in moments of stress, she tended to relapse. "His name was Dr Conrad Fiscella – he held up the bank so he could get to the CEO who was head of a grant foundation that recently canceled his research funding."

While they talked, Dr Janzen drew Ziva over to sit on the exam table, while he checked her vitals. As she extended her arm for a blood pressure cuff, Ziva asked, "What sort of research?"

"He worked for the CDC – Centers for Disease Control – in Atlanta." He saw a shadow of fear Ziva's eyes, and noted that the pupils of her eyes were mere pinpricks. "He wasn't involved with any infectious diseases, he was doing research on an inherited disorder."

Janzen finished his brief exam and made some notes on a clipboard, then took a quick look under the dressing on Ziva's neck. He was about to step away when he saw Ziva rub her hands again, the gesture almost one of annoyance. "Are your hands cold?" he asked.

Ziva looked down at her hands. "Not cold," she said. "They are..." she paused, searching for the word. "Tickling?"

"Tingling?" Gibbs suggested.

"Yes, that is it, they are tingling." She frowned, then added, "My feet are also tingling."

Dr Janzen stood for a moment, looking thoughtful. He noticed, as Gibbs had, Ziva's constricted pupils, and the sweat that had started to form in tiny beads on her forehead and upper lip. "I'm going to admit you," he told Ziva. "You have some mild symptoms – slightly elevated temperature and blood pressure, the tingling extremities, constricted pupils. I can't say yet what they indicate but..." He looked at Gibbs. "You said this Dr Fiscella wasn't involved in infectious disease research but just in case..." He turned to Ziva once more. "I'm going to order isolation protocols. Just as a precaution, until we know what we're dealing with."


	5. We'll Figure It Out

Gibbs's decision to have Ducky accompany McGee to Atlanta to find out just what Fiscella had been working on, had raised a few eyebrows, but Gibbs wanted answers fast, and good as he was with computer files, McGee just didn't have the extensive medical knowledge that would enable Ducky to identify what evidence might be significant and what was a false lead.

Talking to them by video conference on the day following the bank hold-up, Gibbs couldn't help feeling that the mystery surrounding the substance in the syringe, far from being unraveled, was just deepening.

"For the past ten years, Dr Fiscella was been engaged in research into a condition known as fatal familial insomnia," Ducky said. "It's an autosomal dominant, neurodegenerative prion disease..."

"English, Ducky," Gibbs said, cutting through the medical jargon.

Ducky sighed slightly, and explained, "It's a hereditary condition, that causes damage to the brain. You get the disease by inheriting a defective gene from a parent. It's not infectious."

"So what was in the syringe?"

"Sorry, Jethro, I can't tell you that yet. I'm awaiting the results of Abby's analysis."

"McGee, you get anything off Fiscella's computer?" Gibbs asked.

"Working on it, boss. His security was surprisingly sophisticated, but it shouldn't take long to get through, I've set up an algorithm to..." Even through the video feed, the look Gibbs gave him was formidable. McGee cleared his throat slightly, and skipped the technical details. "Once we have access to his research notes, they might give us a clue about the mystery injection."

"Keep me updated." Gibbs ended the call, and got up from his desk. "DiNozzo – the bank CEO give you anything useful?"

"Couple of months ago the Genetic Research and Development Foundation decided to pull his funding. They wanted to focus on research that has a wider application. This disease Fiscella was working on, fatal familial insomnia, it affects about three dozen families worldwide – kills one or two people a year, the historic death toll is tiny." DiNozzo shrugged. "You can understand them wanting to fund something that could save more than a couple of people a year. Fiscella wasn't happy, though. He made repeated attempts to contact members of the grant committee, but none of them would take his calls or respond to his emails."

"Find out exactly what he said in all those calls and emails," Gibbs said over his shoulder as he headed for the elevator.

Abby's lab was much quieter than normal, and Abby herself seemed subdued. Gibbs gave her a searching look, but all he said was, "What've you got?"

"Well, whatever this stuff does, it's not infectious," Abby told him.

"That's good."

"But that doesn't mean it's not dangerous. Lots of things aren't infectious, but they can still kill you!" She glared at him for a moment, then suddenly burst out, "Gibbs, what is it about this team? It's like the women on it are cursed. Kate died, Jenny died, and now Ziva..."

Gibbs caught Abby by the shoulders. "Abby, stop. Ziva is _not_ going to die!" He spoke more roughly than he'd intended, and Abby stared at him for a moment. Then she nodded.

"Right. Positive thoughts. I'm running the tests, and McGee and Ducky are going through that lunatic's research. We'll figure it out."

Gibbs nodded, and pulled Abby in for a brief hug.

"Did you go visit her today?" Abby demanded. "Now we know she doesn't have anything infectious, she can have visitors."

"Heading over there right now," Gibbs assured her.

"Give Ziva my love!" Abby said. "And tell her not to eat the blue jello!" she called, as Gibbs headed out of the lab. Turning back towards her computers, she murmured, "Blue jello... urrghh!" as she started on the next test.

* * *

As he approached Ziva's room, Gibbs heard something clatter against the door, and the sound of Ziva cursing in Hebrew. He opened the door cautiously, and saw Ziva standing beside the bed, wearing a hospital gown and a light blue robe. She was glaring at the comb she'd just thrown across the room. He gave her a quizzical look. "What happened?"

Ziva ran a hand through her hair, which lay loose over her shoulders, looking disheveled and tangled. "I was trying to do my hair, but my hands will not work properly," she said, her voice taut with frustration. She held up her hands and Gibbs could see a noticeable tremor in both of them.

After a moment, Gibbs picked up the comb from the floor and walked over to her. "Sit," he said, nodding at the chair beside the hospital bed. Giving him a wary look, Ziva complied. Gibbs went to stand behind her and began to run the comb gently through her hair, separating out the tangles and drawing the dark softness back from her face. Ziva sat in surprised silence as he deftly wove her hair into a loose braid, and finally fastened it with a hair elastic. Ziva put her hand back to touch the braid.

"I did not know that you knew how to braid hair."

Gibbs shrugged. "Haven't done it for a long time," he said quietly. "Surprised I still remember how." For a brief moment, he let his hand rest on the top of Ziva's head. Then he moved over and sat on the edge of the hospital bed, facing her.

"Whatever was in the syringe, it wasn't infectious," he told her. "Abby's still running tests. And McGee and Ducky are in Atlanta, going over Fiscella's research. He was working on a disease called fatal familial insomnia... what is it?" he asked, seeing a fleeting expression of alarm flash across her face.

"It... it is nothing. I just - I did not sleep well last night."

"Worry'll do that, too," he pointed out. Ziva nodded, and Gibbs continued, explaining what DiNozzo had told him about the disease, and the loss of funding for the research.

As he was finishing, his phone rang. He checked the display, then hit a button and said, "Yeah, Gibbs. Okay... yeah, heading back there now." Putting the phone back in his pocket, he stood up and said to Ziva, "Abby has some results to show me. I'll keep you updated."

Ziva nodded, but as she stood up and took a step, she staggered, and only Gibbs's quick catch, one hand on her shoulder and the other on her waist, stopped her from falling.

"Ziva? What happened?" The sharp note of anxiety in his voice made Ziva look up sharply into his eyes. What she saw in their denim-blue depths made her bite her lower lip, wondering if she was reading him correctly.

"I... I was dizzy for a moment..." she explained. Still holding his gaze, she rested her hands on his upper arms, and almost without realizing that she was doing it, she stepped a little closer, tilting her head up slightly.

The moment stretched, and then Gibbs said softly, "I should... go." Ziva nodded.

"Thank you... for doing my hair." She managed a half-smile.

"Any time," Gibbs told her, meaning it. He released Ziva gently, making sure she wasn't going to stumble again, then leaned down and brushed his lips against her cheek. "I'll be back later. You should... tell the doctor about the dizziness."

Ziva nodded, watching as he walked towards the door. As he opened it, he looked back, and their eyes met. She had a feeling that he wanted to say something more; but then he just nodded slightly and was gone.

Ziva got into the hospital bed, but didn't lie down. She pulled the robe tighter around her, and sat with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them, as she thought about what had just passed between herself and Gibbs.


	6. Need You Too Much

**A/N: Warning: This chapter contains a mention of animal experimentation. However, it's only a reference to past events and there is NO description of it.**

* * *

The last time Gibbs was in the lab, he'd noticed that it was quieter, but this time the music was completely absent, and he knew it was a bad sign.

"Abbs?"

"It's a cytotoxin." Abby turned from the monitor she had been studying, and looked anxiously at Gibbs. "A toxin designed to target one type of cell..."

"_Designed_?"

Abby nodded. She wasn't surprised that Gibbs had picked up on her use of the word. "It's been engineered. Ducky found samples of it in Fiscella's lab – the molecular structure is identical to the one in the syringe."

Gibbs glared at the image on the monitor. "What does it do?"

Abby reached to turn on the video link set up on the table below the monitor. "Ducky's found the research notes, he's going to tell you himself..."

As she spoke, Ducky's face appeared on the link, and Gibbs asked, "What've you got, Duck?"

Ducky's expression was grim, as he said, "According to the notes, and the records of his live-animal tests, the cytotoxin targets neurons – nerve cells. Specifically, it attacks the neurons in the thalamus – a structure in the brain that handles sensory signals, and controls sleep and consciousness . Now, the cytotoxin doesn't destroy the cells, it merely paralyses them – thus producing symptoms that mimic the effects of fatal familial insomnia. It looks as if Fiscella originally developed it so he could run drug tests. He was trying to find something that would relieve the worst symptoms of the disease..."

"Which are?"

Ducky sighed. "FFI is very rare, but it's a terrible way to die, Jethro. It's a prion disease, like Creutzfeldt-Jakob – so-called Mad-Cow disease. Both are spongiform ecephalopathies..." Even through the video link, Ducky picked up on Gibbs's impatient reaction to the medical jargon, and added, "...meaning that tiny holes appear in the brain, and the location of those holes determines the symptoms of the resulting disease. In FFI sufferers, those holes occur in the thalamus, and they become incapable of entering deep sleep; they start to suffer a range of physical and mental problems – malaise, headaches, impaired cognitive function, progressing to hallucinations and seizures. Over time, they lose all ability to function normally. Generally, once the first symptoms manifest, life expectancy is no more than eighteen months. There is no cure."

Seeing Gibbs's rigid expression, Ducky added hurriedly, "The good news is that the syringe contained only the cytotoxin, no infective material - and Fiscella's notes mention that he created an antidote, though we have yet to discover any samples or details."

"The bad news?"

"Well, it's always difficult to apply results with animals to humans, but it appears that with the cytotoxin, the progression of the condition is extremely accelerated. Symptoms such as sweating, numbness in the extremities, and insomnia appear within hours. Over the next few days, problems with processing sensory input increase – along with the symptoms associated with sleep deprivation. The antidote works. It will reverse the symptoms, but only if it's administered within the first two weeks. After that... well, by then, the paralysis of the neurons is permanent, and the antidote is no longer effective . Death occurs within a few weeks."

Gibbs was silent for a few moments. Then he said quietly, "You gotta find that antidote, Duck."

McGee spoke up. "Boss, I've got a warrant to search Fiscella's house – if he kept the antidote there, or had a laptop with the formula for it, I'll find it."

"Then why are you still talking to me?"

McGee needed no further prompting; his face vanished from the screen, and Ducky took up the story again.

"I think I can shed some light on why Fiscella was so desperate to get his funding back. His family is one of those unlucky enough to have a history of FFI – and six months ago, Fiscella got the results of his own genetic testing. He had the gene – which means that he was destined to develop the disease. He left behind three teenaged children – who each have a 50% chance of having inherited the gene from their father. It seems that he had them tested, but I have yet to find any record of the results. Regardless, I surmise that his research was aimed at finding a cure or treatment for his sons."

"Not for himself?"

"Generally those with the gene develop the symptoms when they are in their fifties. Fiscella was 56 – he must have known that the chances of finding a treatment in time to benefit himself were minuscule. But if he had hopes that his work might benefit his children, one can imagine that he became desperate to keep the funding that financed his research. He had copious notes on members of the grant committee."

"So he was planning to inject someone on the committee with the cytotoxin, to force him to reinstate his funding in exchange for the antidote?"

"That appears to be the case. Clearly, he picked the head of the committee as his intended target."

Abby had been listening to the conversation in anxious silence, but now she spoke up. "But as soon as Fiscella turned over the antidote, he'd have been arrested, and the committee could just cancel the funding again. As a plan, it was pretty lame."

"Indeed." Ducky sounded more sad than anything else. "I've talked to some of his colleagues, they report that over the past few months, Fiscella's behaviour changed – he was uncharacteristically irritable, suffered from headaches and hand tremors, and he appeared to be exhausted all the time. From the sound of it, the poor fellow was already in the early stages of FFI. If so, it's hardly surprising that he was acting irrationally."

Gibbs was silent, digesting the information. After an appreciable pause, Ducky said softly, "The question now, Jethro, is how much of this you tell Ziva."

* * *

Ziva watched tensely as the nurse checked her vitals – the usual pulse and temperature. Noting them down, she glanced at her watch, then looked steadily at Ziva for a short time, finally noting down her respiration rate. "The doctor ordered some more blood tests," she said, as she prepared a syringe.

The rubber strip she fixed around Ziva's arm to bring up the vein was uncomfortably tight, and Ziva frowned as the needle slipped into her vein. She had no problem with needles, and under normal circumstances barely felt it when having a blood test or vaccination. But this hurt – not just at the point where the needle went in, but radiating through her arm. She didn't react, though, and told herself firmly that she was imagining things.

A minute or so later, the nurse collected her paraphernalia, but paused before leaving, looking at Ziva's face. "Headache?" she asked.

"Yes – I have a slight headache," Ziva admitted. In truth her head was pounding, but she'd put it down to tension, and her normal dislike of being in a hospital.

The nurse nodded. "I can get you something for that."

After she left, Ziva got out of bed, and went into the bathroom. Studying her face in the mirror, she wasn't surprised to see that she looked tired. Though she'd managed to doze a little the night before, and had vague memories of confusing and disturbing dreams, she felt as if she hadn't slept at all. Her eyes felt as if they had sand in them, and the delicate skin around them was dark and puffy. She ran cold water and soaked a wash cloth, holding it to her eyes until they felt a little less sore. She found herself fumbling with the towel, but after a few muttered curses, she dried her face and stepped back out just as the nurse returned with some pills in a little paper cup. "This should ease the headache," she told Ziva. Seeing her dubious expression, she added, "It's just naproxen – nothing else."

Ziva nodded. As she took the pills, the nurse went to the window and pulled the drapes across it. "You should try to sleep for a while," she instructed. "You should stay in bed in any case – the last thing you need is to be falling if you have more dizziness."

"Good advice," Gibbs commented. The nurse started slightly, not having heard him enter the room, and Ziva smiled as she reflected that Gibbs's customary silent approach worked just as well in a hospital as it did in the NCIS office. Then she saw the look on his face, and her smile faded.

Gibbs waited until the nurse left, then sat on the edge of Ziva's bed, facing her. "We know what was in the syringe. Not good news – Ducky wasn't sure how much I should tell you but..."

"Everything. I want to know what is happening to me," Ziva replied instantly. Gibbs nodded.

"I told him you'd want to know."

When he'd finished, Ziva sat in silence, staring at the drawn drapes without really seeing them. "So... you have two weeks to find the antidote or I will... die." It wasn't a question; she was stating the fact in an effort to comprehend it. The possibility of death in the course of her work was, of course, something she had accepted long ago. But not like this, a slow degeneration into sleepless hell. She felt exhausted after a single night of poor sleep, what would it be like after two weeks? She remembered reading an account of sleep deprivation used as a torture technique, and shuddered, trying to push the details from her mind.

She looked at Gibbs, and found him watching her. For a split second she saw the fear in his eyes, fear for what could happen to her, before his professional mask hid the emotion. "Ziva, we'll find the antidote. Ducky's going over the research, McGee's searching Fiscella's house, and DiNozzo is backtracking his last movements, in case he stashed it somewhere en route."

Ziva nodded. "I have confidence in all of you," she said, "...but..."

"There's no 'but'. We'll find it." Gibbs leaned in and kissed her cheek, as he had when he'd left the day before, but instead of drawing back he hesitated, and their eyes met. For a startled moment, it seemed to Ziva that he was about to kiss her again, and this time not her cheek. But he didn't move. Finally he said very softly, "Not gonna lose you, Ziva. Need you too much..."

He could have been saying that that the team needed her, but the look on Gibbs's face told her that wasn't what he meant. He was speaking for himself alone, of a need that had nothing to do with their job. Ziva raised a hand and touched his cheek, feeling the stubble that suggested he'd been too preoccupied to shave that morning. Her throat felt dry, and for a moment she thought she wouldn't be able to speak, but then she whispered, "And I don't... don't want to leave you."

"You won't have to. That's a promise." Gibbs closed his eyes momentarily, reached for the hand that Ziva still had pressed to his face. Her fingertips were cold, and he rubbed them gently, as if trying to massage some warmth into them. With an effort he stood up. His inclination was to remain right here, to stay with her until he knew she was safe. But his gut told him that the task needed all of them working on it. "Be back in a few hours," he told her, and walked out before he could give in to the temptation to stay.


End file.
